Another funnel inside the kitchen led to the parlor, a compartment designed to hold the lobsters until the trap was hauled up. By law lobstermen are required to fit the parlor with rectangular vents through which little lobsters can escape. The vents are made of buoyant plastic and are attached to the wall of the trap with steel rings designed to corrode slowly in salt water. Should the trap’s buoy rope get cut and the trap lost on the bottom, the rings will eventually disintegrate and the vents will float free, exposing a wider opening through which a lobster of any size can escape. Most traps are outfitted with several bricks, which help them sink quickly and stay in one place on the bottom. At a length of three or four feet and weighing forty pounds, a lobster trap is a hell of a thing to heft around. And if it snags a fisherman on its way overboard, it can drag him straight to the bottom.
Jason turned to retrieve a second trap while Bruce opened the first trap and extracted two coils of rope. In the Gulf of Maine, billions of tons of water flow in and out of the bays along the coast every day as the tide follows the tug of the moon. These hurrying seas are so strong that Bruce had to use rope twice as long as the water was deep, because anything shorter would be dragged under. The buoys were shaped like bullets, streamlined to offer less drag against the currents on the surface, and the ropes themselves were specially designed. The first coil, from the buoy to the halfway point, contained lead filament so it would sink, keeping it clear of the propellers of passing boats. But the second coil, from the halfway point to the bottom, was buoyant polypropylene. It would rise from the trap and float safely above abrasive rocks, even as the tide yanked it back and forth.
Jason hefted the second trap onto the rail next to the first. In water this deep, attaching only one trap to each buoy would be a waste of rope. Bruce had decided to set his thirty-three traps in fifteen pairs, plus one group of three traps at the end—a triple.
Jason opened the second trap and slid out another coil of the buoyant rope, which Bruce tied onto the main line near the first trap. Bruce then tied the main line to a buoy painted with his signature colors: white, black, and fluorescent red. Finally, he coiled through sixty feet of line and tied on another, unpainted buoy—called a toggle—which would spend most of its time underwater but would help keep the surface buoys accessible in the stiff currents.
Bruce rechecked the line, then glanced out the open panel in the windshield to ensure that the boat’s bow was still pointed into the waves. If he let the Double Trouble get sideways to this sea, traps might start tumbling overboard when they weren’t supposed to. Like most lobster boats, the Double Trouble was fitted in the stern with a mast and boom rigged with a triangle of canvas called the riding sail. Normally, the force of wind against the sail would temper the rolling of the boat and swing the stern downwind. But at the moment, the Double Trouble’s riding sail was furled and lashed to the mast to save deck space.
On the seafloor beneath the Double Trouble, the underwater valley was wide. If there were lobsters in it, Bruce guessed, they would be foraging along the edges. He would set eight of his pairs down one side of the valley, and another seven, plus the triple, back up the other. Each line of traps he referred to as a “string.” But before he could drop the gear overboard, the boat would have to be properly positioned. The tide was ebb, flowing away from the coast at a brisk clip, so somewhat like a bombardier Bruce would have to drop each trap northeast of its target and let it sail southwest with the current as it sank.
“Hold on to those,” he said to his sternman, spinning the wheel and gunning the engine. Bruce was staring at the GPS plotter when a wave shook the hull and the boat leaped into the air. Jason tightened his grip on the traps. A split second later the boat crashed down and a burst of spray splattered like machine-gun fire across the windshield. Half of it flew through the open windshield and slammed Bruce squarely in the face and chest.
“Whoa!” Bruce yelled, eyes wide. He growled and throttled down. Reaching for his waterproof jacket, Bruce caught Jason trying to suppress a smile, and both men laughed.
“There’s just no need,” Bruce said, invoking a phrase he might as well have patented, “of this unnecessary bullshit.”
He pulled the window shut and switched on the Clearview, a circular plate of glass in the windshield that spun at eighty revolutions per second—fast enough to fling off oncoming walls of seawater instantly. He glanced at the GPS again, then gave Jason the signal to throw.
Jason turned the tail trap perpendicular to the gunwale and gave it a shove. As the trap splashed into the water he leaped nimbly backward, eyes riveted on the pile of rope at his feet, which was now playing out in a blur of flying coils.
When rope runs off a moving lobster boat it is reluctant to leave and will flail across the deck until it finds the point of exit that is farthest aft. Over the years, so many miles of rope had run off the Double Trouble’s decks that a deep groove was worn in the corner of her stern. But today her deck was piled with gear, and a rope flailing aft could cause mayhem. To coax the rope into the water sooner, Bruce had planted a piece of iron pipe upright in the gunwale, like a fence post. The rope was now flinging itself up from the deck, hitting the pipe, and falling overboard amidships.
Another wave hit the starboard bow and the Double Trouble rolled on her beam, the port gunwale sinking toward the water. Jason leaned back and held the head trap against his chest to keep it from sliding into the sea too soon. In the same instant the outgoing rope happened to flip over the top of the iron pipe.
The boat quickly righted herself, but now the rope was running overboard behind the pipe instead of in front of it. In seconds the coil on deck would be spent and the rope would yank the head trap aft inside the boat, slamming it into the stack of untethered traps in the stern and probably dragging some of them overboard. If Jason was lucky, the head trap would knock him out of the way as it passed. If he was unlucky, he could end up mashed between traps on his way into the water.
In four quick movements, Bruce used his right hand to flip the throttle to idle, throw the gear handle into reverse, and slam the throttle wide open again, while with his left hand he lunged for the bridle of the head trap to help Jason hold it aboard. The boat shook violently in protest and the water around her stern frothed. As the Double Trouble slowed to a halt, Bruce spun the wheel to port and with a burst of forward power swung the stern away from the submerged trap line that was trailing behind the boat. He had averted one crisis only to invite another—tangling the rope in his propeller.
Forty minutes later all thirty-three traps were in the water and the Double Trouble’s decks were clear. Jason pulled down his overalls and urinated onto the deck, then hosed it off, washing a mixture of pee, grime, and sun-dried periwinkles out the scuppers in the stern. Bruce plucked a fresh blueberry muffin from his lunch bag. The night before, Bruce had put on his best pouting face, and Barb had agreed to make the muffins. She knew from experience how miserable it could be out on the water.
While Jason struggled to open a Pop-Tart with his fish-oily hands, Bruce switched on the radio and tuned it to the oldies station. It was nearly 8:00 A.M. He set a course for the first of the three hundred traps he planned to haul that day. The traps had been sitting on the bottom for four days. Maybe there would be lobsters in them.
Bruce turned to Jason and grinned.
“I guess that could have been worse.”
Jason nodded. “Yup.”
The R/V Connecticut was hovering over the first dive position of the day. The crane pivoted off the stern, dangling the Phantom above the water by its tether. A technician hit a lever and the crane’s winch creaked into action, lowering the robot into the sea. A voice from a loudspeaker crackled across the deck.
“ROV in the water.”
Bob Steneck ducked into the Phantom’s command room. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkened scene within. A bank of video screens, computer keyboards, and racks of electronic equipment ran floor to ceiling through the narrow co
mpartment. Sonar pings sounded, overlaid with radio communications between the command module and the bridge. In front of one screen sat the Phantom’s pilot. Next to him were a copilot, an engineer, and one of Bob’s research assistants, their eyes glued to the screens. Off to the side, monitoring a video screen of his own, sat Carl Wilson, a sturdy young man with tousled blond hair. Carl was the chief lobster biologist at Maine’s Department of Marine Resources.
“Hey guys,” Bob chirped, perching next to his assistant, “what’s our depth?”
“Just coming up on eight-zero,” the pilot answered, steering the Phantom toward the bottom with a pair of joysticks. The copilot monitored the position of the robot relative to the ship. A breeze on the surface could nudge the Connecticut off the diving position and drag the robot backward by its tether. Following instructions from the robot’s copilot, the Connecticut’s captain made constant corrections with pulses from the ship’s bow and stern thrusters. On the video monitors, a rain of plankton gave way to a landscape of pebble fields and small boulders.
“Bottom in sight,” the pilot radioed to the bridge. “Depth, one-zero-four.”
Sea anemones grew like stalks of broccoli on the rocks. Small fish darted among a variety of bottom-dwelling sea life, including mussels, scallops, and starfish. Crabs lumbered across the sediment. Between rocks were nooks and crannies of the sort that Bob knew lobsters sought for shelter.
“This looks like a high-rent district,” Bob said. “Let’s start here.”
Bob’s research assistant switched on the video recorder and noted time and depth on a clipboard. The pilot set the Phantom onto a “transect”—a straight-line run of one hour in one direction, which generated data that was more statistically useful than random searching.
The Phantom glided over the gravel for several long minutes without encountering anything of interest. Then, in the distant gloom, Bob thought he saw the tip of a lobster’s antenna protruding from behind a rock.
“There’s one,” Bob said, pointing. “Between those two boulders. Let’s see if we can encourage him out of there.”
The pilot pressed his joystick and the Phantom entered a slow-motion dive. The robot nudged the boulder and the lobster antenna twitched. Sure enough, when the pilot backed the robot away, the lobster emerged from its hiding place to investigate the intruder. It strutted forward, claws extended and antennae whipping the water.
If the lobster had been able to see the robot hovering overhead it might have been unnerved. The eyes of a lobster can detect motion under low-light conditions but don’t discern much detail, especially when faced with floodlights. Lobsters are, however, equipped with sensitive touch receptors, in the form of their two long antennae and thousands of minute hairs protruding through the shells of their claws and legs. Like houseflies, lobsters can also taste with their feet. But a lobster’s most acute sense is its ability to smell. A smaller pair of two-pronged antennae, known as antennules, contain hundreds of chemical receptors that give lobsters most of their hunting and socializing skills. But the Phantom didn’t emit a recognizable scent. Uncertain, the lobster turned from side to side.
“That’s it, baby,” Bob cooed, leaning back in his chair. “Work the camera.”
Bob wanted a side view in order to get a size measurement. If the Phantom’s pilot circled, the lobster was likely to pivot with the robot, claws at the ready. Instead, the pilot feigned retreat by backing up. Concluding that the threat had passed, the lobster turned to walk away, exposing its flank.
“Paint him with the lasers!” Bob exclaimed, scooting to the edge of his seat.
A pair of parallel laser beams hit the lobster squarely on its shell, providing a gauge of the animal’s length. Satisfied, Bob sat back. The pilot recommenced the transect. Shortly Carl Wilson squinted and pointed to a corner of the screen.
“Is that another one over there?”
“Yeah, and he’s running away,” Bob said. “Hit the after-burners!”
The pilot changed course, and the Phantom slowly gained on the lumbering lobster. It was a hulking animal, barnacles growing on its shell. The big lobster turned, faced the Phantom head-on, then lifted its claws wide and ran directly at the robot.
“You’re going to lose,” said the pilot.
At the last second the lobster seemed to reach the same conclusion and backed off.
Bruce Fernald finished hauling his traps early. It had been another miserable day. Bruce and Jason had emptied and rebaited nearly three hundred traps for a measly seventy-five lobsters. By tradition a sternman’s earnings were a fixed share of the catch. Today Jason had made the mistake of calculating his hourly wage. Bruce had made the mistake of pondering the pair of college-tuition payments he was making for his twin sons. He’d done his part to repopulate the world. Why weren’t the lobsters doing theirs?
Bruce and Jason were scrubbing the boat down on their run back toward shore when the marine radio crackled.
“This is the R/V Connecticut calling the Bottom Dollar. You on there, Jack?”
Bruce recognized Bob Steneck’s voice and turned up the volume to listen.
“Yeah, this is the Bottom Dollar. Go ahead.”
“Hey, Jack. It’s Bob. How’s it going?”
There was a moment of silence before Jack answered.
“Ah, it’s not looking so good out here. Did you get a chance to check out those spots I gave you?”
Bob explained that partway through the day a computer had malfunctioned in the Phantom’s command module, delaying the dive schedule.
“Unfortunately, I won’t have time today,” Bob said. “But I’m going to try to hit them next week, on our way back from Canada.”
“That’s too bad,” Jack said.
“Yeah,” Bob said. “Anyway, good luck with the rest of your day.”
The radio went quiet. Bruce shook the soap from his brush and scanned the water for the Connecticut. He could make out the white wedge of her bow steaming in from the west. He altered his course twenty degrees so the Double Trouble’s path would intersect the Connecticut’s.
A few minutes later Bruce throttled down as his lobster boat pulled up to the research ship. Bob Steneck and Carl Wilson talked with Bruce across the trough of seawater splashing between the two craft.
“Did you clean up today, Bruce?” Carl shouted, smiling.
Bruce groaned.
“Hardly caught a thing,” he said. “Thought I’d stop by and complain.”
The men laughed. Then Bruce grew serious.
“So far this is the worst season I can remember.”
Bob nodded. “I’ve been talking to fishermen all along the coast,” he said, “and it’s the same story everywhere. No one’s catching any lobsters.”
“It’s downright grim,” Bruce said. “How’s it look on the bottom?”
“We did see some lobsters today,” Bob answered.
“I sure as hell would like to know what’s going on down there,” Bruce said, shaking his head. “When you figure it all out,” he added, only half joking, “let me know.”
Bruce backed his boat away from the research ship, leaving a frothy wake. He threw the scientists a salute, then punched the throttle and set a course for home.
A few minutes later the radio aboard the Double Trouble crackled once more.
“Bottom Dollar, you still on there, Jack?” It was Bob again.
“Go ahead,” came Jack’s voice over the speaker.
“I don’t know if it makes any difference to you where you’re fishing, but I just told Bruce that over here we saw some lobsters on the bottom.”
“Is that right,” Jack responded. “Throw a few in my traps, will you?”
“Yeah, right.” Bob laughed.
The voice of another local lobsterman interrupted the conversation. “You saw lobsters?” he said. “Where the hell are you? Stay right there, I’m on my way.”
PART ONE
Trapping
1
A Haul o
f Heritage
The oceans of the earth abound with lobsters. Lobsters with claws like hair combs sift mud in offshore trenches. Clawless lobsters with antennae like spikes migrate in clans in the Caribbean and the South Pacific. Flattened lobsters with heads like shovels scurry and burrow in the Mediterranean and the Galapagos. The eccentric diversity of the world’s lobsters has earned them some of the most whimsical names in the animal kingdom. There is a hunchback locust lobster and a regal slipper lobster. There are marbled mitten lobsters, velvet fan lobsters, and even a musical furry lobster. The unicorn and buffalo blunt-horn lobsters inspire admiration; the African spear lobster, the Arabian whip lobster, and the rough Spanish lobster demand respect.
Nowhere in the world, however, is the seafloor as densely populated with lobsters as in the Gulf of Maine. Though a less sophisticated creature than some of its clawless counterparts, the American lobster, scientific name Homarus americanus, is astonishingly abundant.
But at five o’clock on a September morning in 1973, the young Bruce Fernald didn’t know that, and he wasn’t interested.
“Hey, Bruce.” The door opened. “Come on, son, get up. We’re going fishing.”
Bruce groaned, rolled over, and cracked open an eye. Still dark. Jesus. Almost four years in the navy, riding nights away in the bunk of a destroyer, rounding the Cape of Good Hope in forty-foot seas, and what happens the first time he tries to sleep in his own bed back home? His father wakes him up before dawn to get in a boat.
Sure, Bruce thought as he yanked on his socks, when I was fourteen I hauled traps by hand from a skiff, like every other kid on Little Cranberry Island. Does that automatically make me a lobsterman? The world was big and in the navy Bruce had sailed all the way around it. He wasn’t certain he wanted to condemn himself to the hard life his forefathers had endured, hauling up what the old-timers called “poverty crates” full of “bugs.”
The Secret Life of Lobsters Page 2